Really it hasn't been long, at least it doesn't feel like it. Eight years. Eight years since he looked in the mirror and blood red eyes stared back. It's the fresh blood, the kind that spills on bed sheets and flows from his victim's necks. He's seen the darker, browner, older blood that has marred the alabaster porcelain of his mask when he gets back from a mission. But the way his eyes glowed in the dark is fresher. Perhaps marking the light of the new generation that he represents, rather than the old curmudgeon men who push for war.
He knows though, he doesn't represent any future- not one worth Sasuke at least.
He's quite honestly terrified to look at Sasuke sometimes. What if- what if Sasuke saw…. If he looked at Itachi and just saw? What if the hatred bleeds through and he sees what Itachi's done? What if he knew?
Itachi knows- knows it like an itch you try not to scratch, because it will only get worse, he knows that Sasuke will see one day, even if he won't think about it.
It's been so long. Twelve years, about how old his foolish otouto is. Twelve years of seeing too much. Sometimes the curse just doesn't shut off, the carmine red that has seen so much. It hurts to think. It hurts to breath. It hurts to see.
He thinks back sometimes to when he thought he'd seen enough, to when his sharingan had been a curse. Now it's worse. Now it's not just a mark of his egregious past, but a way to remember it. Itachi has to, his eyes have catalogued everything and on nights when they just don't turn off he sees things. Remembers memories of every childish, bloody, prideful detail of his life.
It's his reflection in the kantana, cowardly crying, eyes red with grief. He likes to pretend that his tears had pinkened his eyes in the reflection, but he knows that it's just the sharingan.
It's standing on a street after a night of death, death he brought. His eyes are sharp despite tears that should blur his vision, red irises that pick out every detail. And he's not the only one, red eyes that fit into a child's face- his brother's face that should never have had them.
It's a man covered in bandages.
It's a boy holding out his hand with his eyes closed.
It's the day care.
It's the boy who had long bangs like Sasuke.
It's Sasuke.
It's the boy who comes running at him down the hallway with a mark that's just too familiar. It's the idea that a blonde haired brat could change his otouto's foolish naìve thoughts.
He has to wipe his blood off his hands, but the dark color nearly matches his faded, tired eyes. A color that never fades.
It's been nineteen years and rumors. Sometimes it hurts that he can't see him, that he can't make sure Sasuke doesn't have nightmares even if he caused them. He used to get frustrated when his Otouto seemed to not notice his presence, sleeping better in fact. He needs to keep his guard up- just in case.
Now it's Orochimaru that he would have to get past instead of Sandaime-Sama, and it's impossible. But Sasuke killed him, if his contacts are correct. Sasuke killed the unethical snake and Itachi knows he's next. If anything he's as close to happy that he's been, since, maybe the Kyuubi incident.
Itachi's eyes are all he has, all he has left. He knows Sasuke's spinning sharingan are better, brighter like the way he used to laugh- a childish cackle with a snort of "Aniki!" Mixed in there.
Now he watches blood spurt the ground and hears a laugh and sees a bandaged sword. It's really only with his heightened senses due to losing his vision, and his vague sense of chakra signature, he knows it's his partner committing the crime. He watches blood spurt the ground and mix the soil and sees the color of his eyes in it. It's almost as if they were fading back to his normal black eyes.
He walks away from the battlefield (slaughter) reminded of the once akatsuki cloud- scarlet his eyes used to be, compared to the blood soaked soil they are now. Itachi doesn't hate his own eyes so much anymore, they are a part of him now a necessity. At night Itachi wishes Sasuke would hate his own eyes, just enough so that Sasuke would never use the clan's eyes. The wet ground is as blood stained as his eyes are. His eyes. His weapon. He can never quite clean it though, there is no rag to wipe the blood off.
It's been nineteen years since bright tired eyes looked in the mirror. Nineteen years and his dearest Otouto is ready.
'It's been too long and too little time. A mixture of both. With these eyes I've seen too much, and too little of what I want to see'